


moth balls, and lavender, and strong men’s cologne

by mochaMomiles



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Men Crying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:07:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29862009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mochaMomiles/pseuds/mochaMomiles
Summary: Memories from before still hurt just as bad as they always have. Memories from even before the game, memories of a girl. A girl who was a red stain on the entirety of humanity. A girl who was a symbol of something, something darkly intriguing. She was all red lipstick and fluttering eyelashes, the sickly smell of bleach and lavender.
Relationships: Hinata Hajime/Komaeda Nagito, Hinata Hajime/Nanami Chiaki
Kudos: 10





	moth balls, and lavender, and strong men’s cologne

————————————

It was when Hinata heard the birds chirping that he snapped out of the numbness he had been trapped in all night. Memories from  _ before _ still hurt just as bad as they always have. Memories from even before the game, memories of a girl. A girl who was a red stain on the entirety of humanity. A girl who was a symbol of something, something darkly intriguing. She was all red lipstick and fluttering eyelashes, the sickly smell of bleach and lavender. Hinata could practically  _ feel  _ her sharp acrylic nails dragging across his skin as he slid further and further into this spiral. Knowing her was like peeling back layers of skin and poking at it for fun, stripping your outer shell until you were completely exposed. He hated the way thinking about everything that happened felt good in the worst way possible. She was like a rot in his brain, eating away at every good memory he had managed to salvage, even after she'd been long gone. 

There were times when Hinata felt not even human anymore. But hearing the birds outside his window, that was humanity. Whenever Komaeda would sleep over, the chirping birds always woke the two of them up. They’d mutter a groggy insult at the birds, closing the blinds so the early morning light would stop stinging their eyes. He missed that kind of stuff. He missed the way Komaeda made him feel painfully human. It had been a long time since they’d spoken, although Hinata wasn’t even sure why they weren’t talking in the first place. But if Komaeda was mad at him, he decided he was going to be mad too. 

He let out a long sigh, flopping forward on his bed. The numbing boredom starting to envelop him was clouding his thoughts, making his head pound. This boredom was painfully familiar, a grating reminder of what he used to be. He didn’t remember  _ everything  _ from before the island, but he remembered chunks of it. He remembered how  _ heavy  _ a gun felt in his hand, how inconsequential his classmates were to him, how his head always felt like it was filled with cotton. He remembered seeing Komaeda at the mercy of a pistol, and pulling the trigger with no hesitation. He can still see the slight nervousness in everybody’s eyes when he talks to them, no matter how much they deny it. They still remember who he was, and that wouldn’t change. 

Maybe he could retreat from his cottage and “accidentally” run into somebody, and they could pull him out of this slump. He figured it must have been a couple hours before breakfast, which meant only a few people would be up. Nidai and Owari would certainly be awake, training at the crack of dawn like always, shouting harsh words of “encouragement” at each other. They’ve asked Hinata a number of times if he wished to join them some morning, to which he always politely declined. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep up with whatever extreme workout regiment they had going, especially when he was so out of shape. Koizumi would probably be awake too, doing whatever it is she does. She was often a source of good advice— solicited and unsolicited. He mulled over going to her place to at least get  _ some  _ kind of advice for how to fix what he was feeling, but more often than not, Saionji was in her cottage with her and slept in considerably later than Koizumi, and Hajime didn’t particularly feel like being berated for interrupting her sleep. He also didn’t think he even had it in him to leave his bed. He felt stale, rotted. Like he was sinking down through his bed into the floor. He hated when he got like this. The complete  _ lack  _ of feeling and stimulation was worse than anything he’d ever felt, but he just couldn’t manage to pull himself out of it. 

A soft  _ knock knock  _ at the door made him flinch, the sound cutting through the air like a knife. 

“Come in,” He had meant it to sound nonchalant but it came off as more of a question than anything else. The door creaked open softly, and Chiaki’s head popped into the room. 

“Hajime? I didn’t wake you did I?” 

“Oh, no. I’ve been awake for…. a while.” 

“Yeah, heh, me too.” 

Chiaki was no stranger to wild sleep schedules, so it wasn't a surprise that she was awake, but it was odd that she would leave her cottage this early. Usually she’d be locked in her room, all the lights off, trying to beat her record for speed running Sonic Adventure 2, or whatever game she had dedicated herself to that day. It was rare that she even came out of her room before noon, as she’d typically join everybody for lunch, only to end up dozing off in the middle of a sentence and have to be carried back to bed. 

“Do you need something?” 

“Oh, no? I was just wondering if you wanted to help me beat the two player levels of Super Mario Bros. Yknow, considering you’re the only person who can keep up with me.” 

He paused, trying to come up with something to say.  _ The only reason I can keep up with you is because they planted these stupid fucking talents into my brain like some kind of freak. Everything I am is artificial. I am hardly even human anymore.  _

“I… I don’t know. Maybe later or something.”

“Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” He sighed, rubbing his eyes, “It’s just… one of those days.”

“Ohhh,” Chiaki nodded knowingly, closing the door behind her as she walked into the room to sit on the edge of his bed. She opened up her arms toward Hajime, and he accepted the embrace. Chiaki’s hugs were always the best. The soft sweatshirt she was always wearing definitely added to the experience. He laid his head on her shoulder, and took a deep breath. Something about Chiaki was just so… comforting. It seemed like she always knew just how to make everybody feel better. 

“How about we finally get some sleep, huh?” She laid back onto the bed, and patted the pillow, inviting Hajime to lay down too. 

“Maybe just a little nap…” He yawned, finally feeling the lack of sleep starting to weigh on him. He laid next to Chiaki, wrapping the both of them in the blankets. She cuddled up next to him, and he smiled softly to himself. Sometimes he got so wrapped up with everything in the past that he tended to forget what he had. But Chiaki was always a reminder. She was a constant. His final thoughts before drifting off to sleep were nothing but her. 

———————————

A sharp knocking on the door startled Hajime awake, and he gingerly slid out of bed as to not wake up a sleeping Chiaki. He opened the door to reveal none other than the Ultimate Photographer herself: Mahiru Koizumi. 

_ Shit. _

“You skipped breakfast.” 

“Uh, yeah, I was—“ 

“And now it’s almost lunch time, and from the looks of it,” she gestured to his disheveled appearance, “you’ve only just now woken up.” 

She looked around Hajime into his room where Chiaki was sleeping, and she chuckled. He opened his mouth to explain, but was cut off. 

“I thought you only swung for the other team, Hajime.” She crossed her arms, trying to withhold a teasing smile. 

“Wh—? Other team?” He looked back at Chiaki, and then at Mahiru again. “Oh, god what? Shut up,  _ please.  _ I’ll meet everybody at lunch, okay? Okay. Goodbye now.” 

“Not so fast,” She shoved her foot in the doorframe to prevent him from closing the door, “You need to talk to Nagito. Watching you two do this stupid dance every few months has run it’s course. Talk it out like adults.” 

“Ugh. Sure, yeah, I’ll think about it.”

She tried to object as he slammed the door, but he managed to evade further questioning from her for now. He slid down the door onto the floor, letting out a deep huff of air. 

“Don’t  _ think  _ about it, Hajime, just do it. He’s  _ your  _ little project after all. Work it out with him, or else I’ll have to get involved,” Mahiru called out from the other side of the door as she departed. 

In the logical part of his brain, Hajime knew she was just trying to help, making sure things ran smoothly on the island and keeping things diplomatic; She meant well. But the  _ other  _ part of his brain was pissed. Why was it even her fucking business what was going on between him and Nagito? If they wanted to hate each other, that was their prerogative, right? If he never wanted to see Nagito’s stupid face again, that was  _ his  _ decision, wasn’t it? The mere thought of having to go confront him made him want to melt into the floor completely. Nagito probably was doing completely fine without him around, right? So  _ why _ should he come groveling back if Nagito is doing just fine? 

_ If he’s doing so great without me, why shouldn’t it keep going like that?  _

_ “ _ She’s right you know,” Chiaki’s voice cut through his whirling string of thoughts. A slight tinge of guilt stabbed him when he realized slamming the door in Mahiru’s face woke her from her sleep.  _ Why do I always fuck everything up… _

“Yeah,” Hajime sighed, “I know.” 

“How about we head to lunch,” Chiaki started to get up from where she was sitting on the bed, “Maybe some food and fresh air will make you feel a little better?” 

It was worth a shot. Anything was better than rotting in his dark and gloomy room all day. 

—————————

Hajime trodded down the bath towards the dining hall, with Chiaki in tow. Her head in the DS she kept with her at all times, she kept a firm grip on his sleeve to ensure she wouldn’t bump into anything. As they neared the door, the lively conversation could be heard: Ibuki loudly rambling about why some amps are better than others, Sonia and Gundham chattering about horror movies, and Mahiru yelling about how the dishes didn’t get washed again. He took a deep breath and pushed open the door, stepping into a barrage of pointed looks, some more direct than others. He paid no attention, dragging Chiaki to a table and sitting down as quickly as possible. Everybody’s business tended to spread like wildfire on the island, and it was no doubt that Mahiru had said something about whatever him and Chiaki had been up to. It didn’t help that he had her sweatshirt tied around his waist from when she had discarded it and asked him to hold it for her. But it’s not  _ his  _ fault, he was just doing her a favor. As like, a friend or whatever.

But as it usually went, the normal discussions started up again, and Hajime took a breath. Feeling everybody’s eyes peeling off of him was a huge relief. He scanned the room for Nagito, but to no avail. It was rather odd for him to skip lunch, considering he was usually up at breakfast. He was about to bring it up to Mahiru when the door swung open, and Komaeda poked his head through the door. 

Hajime’s stomach dropped as he spotted him. 

“Komaeda, why are you wearing  _ that _ ?” 

The green and red striped sweater was grotesquely familiar. A simple piece of clothing with the weight of thousands of sins clinging to it. It was worn out now, hanging off his body; the colors not so vibrant, but the memory just as fresh. That sweater was  _ her _ . Hajime had been too close for comfort with that sweater. He’d balled it up in his fists, and grabbed at it, and practically ripped it off of Komaeda when they’d mess around before. Back when they were different. He could still remember what it smelled like: moth balls, and lavender, and strong men’s cologne. Seeing it now, on his body again, made his stomach turn. 

Back when they all had woken up, they’d made an unspoken pact to never speak  _ her _ name, to get rid of all the reminders of her they had left. She was a dark spot on all of them, a twisted reminder of what they had all been. He had  _ thought _ Nagito had gotten rid of it. He had  _ thought _ she didn’t have a hold on him anymore. But Nagito always was full of unpleasant surprises, wasn’t he. 

“Oh, this?” Komaeda looked down at his sweater, “I just thought it was a good day to wear it.” 

Hajime wanted to throw up. His eyes were wide, staring straight at Komaeda. 

_ What. The. Fuck.  _

Tension filled every inch of air, suffocating all the jovial conversation that had been going on. Everybody was darting their eyes to Hajime, expecting him to do something. 

Mahiru’s words from earlier rang in his head:  _ He’s your little project after all. _

He shot up from his chair, and grabbed Komaeda by the arm, dragging him out into the hallway. He hated the way everybody made him responsible for Komaeda. Made  _ him  _ pick up the pieces. Everybody else treated him like a bomb about to explode, a live wire. The way Hajime was shaking right now, he didn’t blame them; every neuron in his brain was firing at full capacity, his veins full of angry red ants. He hated the way Komaeda could hurl him into a full meltdown with such simple actions. 

He whipped around to face Komaeda, his face beet red. Komaeda was eerily straight faced, his big doe eyes blinking slowly like they always did. 

“Why.”

“You mean the sweater?” Komaeda tilts his head with an obsequious smile, “I just figured, it’s been a while since I’d worn it, so… here it is.”

“You were supposed to get rid of that thing! I don’t know why you would think it’s okay to wear that.”

“Oh please, because of  _ Junko _ ? I hate the way you guys hold her over our heads. We did bad shit, and we need to embrace that. I’ll wear my mistakes, I’m not gonna hide from her for eternity. Not that I ever could. And you can’t either.”

The mention of her name sent shockwaves through his body. His legs went numb, and he clenched his fists, digging his fingernails into his palms until it stung. He hated when Komaeda did this. Played this game with everybody, waving  _ her  _ in front of everybody’s faces, as if having her hand as a part of him just wasn’t enough. 

“She was everything to us. To  _ all  _ of us. Everybody treats me like I’m the only one who feels that way about her, but I know you feel it too. Everybody does. But I’m the only one who speaks what I feel.” 

“Stop,” Hajime’s voice broke, damning him, giving Komaeda a place to sink his teeth into and go in for the kill. 

“And you were the worst of us all, right? Who are you to act so high and mighty?” 

Hajime could feel it coming. A final blow. 

“You were her right hand man, you can’t pretend you’re a whole different person now. You’re still him. Still  _ you.  _ Still Izuru Kama—“

He shoved Komaeda in the chest,  _ hard.  _ He fell backwards onto the ground, and Hajime could see the shock in his eyes as he looked up at him. 

“Fuck you.” 

“I see,” Komaeda sighed, “You don’t get it.”

“What is there to get? The fact that you’re being fucking insane and making everybody uncomfortable just because you feel the need to punish yourself? She’s fucking gone, okay? She’s dead.”

“I don’t…” He trailed off for a moment, a piece of his insincerity shattering, “I don't want her to be gone.” 

Hajime softened at that, swallowing hard. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew exactly where Komaeda was coming from. He missed her too, deep down. She had made things so…  _ easy.  _ Their only objective was to ruin, to destroy. But now, picking up the pieces, living on after her, that was the hard part. 

“I know. But you're more than just her. You’re more than just what she told you that you were.” 

“Sometimes I think she was the only one who saw me as I really was.”

“She saw you through a shattered lens. The same lens you see yourself through. But that’s not what’s real, Komaeda. That’s not how  _ I  _ see you.”

Nagito scoffs defeatedly, “Your idealism is admirable.”

Hajime offered a hand to Komaeda, and lifted him off of the ground into a hug. He was still mad, but he knew he needed it. They both did. It took everything in him not to start bawling his eyes out, but he needed to stay strong right now. If he fell apart, so would Komaeda. And right now, he was hanging on by only a thread. 

“I care about you so much Komaeda. We all do.”

“Don’t…. say that.” 

“It’s true. You mean so much. You’re not just  _ her. _ ” 

Nagito sniffled, his breath hitching, and Hajime couldn’t take in anymore. He sobbed into his shoulder, still wrapped in a tight hug. He unraveled in his arms, holding desperately onto him. He could feel Komaeda’s nails digging into his back and all he could do was embrace him harder. He wanted to squeeze all the despair out of him, replace it with something new. Hugging Komaeda in this sweater almost felt wrong. It almost felt like he was giving in, but he pushed through that thought. This wasn’t her, it was Nagito. 

He became suddenly aware of Chiaki’s sweatshirt he had tied around his waist, shrugging it off and holding it out to Nagito. There was a pause for a second, and he started to worry he would refuse it, but after a moment, he began to lift off the sweater. 

Of course Hajime had seen him undress a number of times, but he couldn’t stop himself from staring. It’s not  _ his  _ fault Komaeda chose to undress right here in front of him. 

“D-do you want me to look away?” 

“No, it’s okay. I don’t mind,” He pulled Chiaki’s sweatshirt over his head, and smiled the smile that Hajime loved. A smile that was genuine, and not veiled by layers upon layers of decorum or obsequiousness. The kind of smile that made his heart get all warm. And his face, too. 

“I’m sorry by the way,” He mutters as he hands the sweater over to Hajime, “For avoiding you. I just… feel like such a burden to you all the time. And even when you say I’m not, I can’t help but feel like you’re just saying that so I don't feel bad.”

“Hey. I mean what I say. You have to trust me, okay? You aren’t a burden. To anybody.”

Komaeda shrugged, but gave a soft smile. 

“I’m gonna go take care of this, alright?” Hajime gestured to the sweater he held gingerly in his arms, holding it like it would shatter him at any moment.

“What are you going to do with it?”

“I don’t know,” He said, trying his best to sound indifferent. The truth was, he wanted to rip it to pieces and dissolve it into dust so  _ she  _ could never affect Komaeda again. “I’ll see you, okay? I’ll be back later.”

He waved as he left, and quickly darted out of the dining hall.

He didn't know when he had started sprinting, but his lungs burned. His throat was dry and his eyes were wet, his heart beating practically out of his chest. He only stopped when he reached the shore line of the island. He laid the grim sweater in the sand, staring at it for a moment before grabbing one of the torches sticking out of the sand to light up the beach at night. 

“Fuck you.  **Fuck. You.** ”

He lit the sleeve on fire, watching the flame dance and weave through the fibers. It caught quickly traveling over the sweater and creating a dark cloud of smoke. The flames ate away the sweater, but the smell still lingered as he walked away from the beach: 

Mothballs, and lavender, and strong men’s cologne.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Y’all I’m so tired and I didn’t beta read this shit . We die like men


End file.
